


Left of Normal

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Monsters Play Games [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Boundaries, Consent Issues, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rape Fantasy, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Finding the edge of one another's boundaries is a continuous process.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: Monsters Play Games [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578574
Comments: 30
Kudos: 475





	Left of Normal

Jon and Martin were kissing as they came through the door, and Martin kicked it shut behind them, grabbing hold of Jon’s tie and pulling it tight around his neck to lead him by. Jon choked out a whimpered noise, stumbling after him as Martin dragged him into the bedroom. He was dizzy by the time Martin dropped him back on the bed, and Martin grinned as he leaned to unlace Jon’s shoes.

“I want to get you off,” Jon said.

“Later,” Martin replied, dropping one of Jon’s scuffed brown Oxfords aside and beginning to unlace the other. “I’m getting _you_ off first.”

“Is that your idea of chivalry?”

“I’m not chivalrous,” Martin said, throwing the other shoe aside and falling on top of Jon, putting all his weight on Jon’s body and feeling him sigh. He wouldn’t have done this, in the beginning – Jon was rake-thin and bony and _fragile_-looking, no matter that he could take the punishment anybody threw at him, and Martin? Martin was _big_. He wasn’t just fat, and he wasn’t just muscular, either – he was _tall_, and he was built, as he’d heard his mother once describe him to a doctor at her home, _like a brick shithouse_. Jon said he liked the weight, though, and that he liked the pressure. Martin hadn’t believed him until he’d once teasingly laid on top of him to play with his hair, and Jon had fallen asleep after a few minutes. “I just enjoy watching _you_ more than I enjoy coming. Take it as a compliment.”

Jon bit his chin, and then bit his way into Martin’s mouth, kissing him hard.

It was… complicated.

Jon liked some things. He liked being choked, being pinned down – he liked bondage well enough, but he preferred it when it was Martin’s weight or Martin’s grip on him, liked the feeling of his hands. He liked to be spanked, liked to be bitten and scratched, liked pain. Sometimes, he liked to be gagged. He didn’t always like to be blindfolded, but he always ended up closing his eyes, once he actually let Martin take control. He liked Martin to be in control, but he liked to fight until he was tired enough to yield. He liked massages – he _loved_ massages, could come just from the right touch on his back or his thighs, especially when Martin talked in his ear as he went. He liked frottage, so long as at least one of them was clothed, and it didn’t stick to his skin too badly.

He wanked, sometimes, in the shower, but he didn’t usually like someone else’s hand on his cock – it was too intense, too much. They’d tried Martin suck his cock, once.

Jon had cried, and not in a sexy way.

Jon didn’t like giving oral, either. He’d told Martin about a time in university where he’d tried to give a bloke a blowjob and had felt like he was going to drown the whole time. It made him shaky and panicky, although it had taken a while to get him to believe that Martin couldn’t _really_ enjoy himself knowing that Jon was inwardly desperate for him to finish, no matter that Jon woodenly said it was worth it.

He liked to watch Martin come, in the beginning. He liked watching him wank, but didn’t want to touch, at first – now… They’d tried it. He’d been certain he wouldn’t like it, at first, but he’d liked it more than he’d expected, with Martin. The actual touch to his cock had been fine – the wonderful thing had been the way Jon had leaned right against his body, his cheek on Martin’s shoulder, looking up at his face the whole time.

So long as, of course, he could use his left hand, and there were wet wipes immediately available afterward, and Martin didn’t get _emissions_ (not a sexy word, especially not a sexy word the way Jon said it, nose wrinkled and mouth twisted) on the sheets or on Jon’s clothes. So long as Martin didn’t sweat too much, or he had to shower before they could go to sleep.

Those requirements had come out in bits and pieces.

And—

Honestly?

It had made him laugh, the first time, and Jon had been so worried that Martin would be annoyed, and he hadn’t been. It was just that Jon being _specific_ and _particular_ and demanding was… very Jon.

They were still kissing, but Jon was getting more energetic, now, was pushing at Martin’s body because he liked the pressure it made him feel in his arms, his legs as he tried to kick them.

Martin wondered if, once upon a time, he wouldn’t have enjoyed sex with a man who enjoyed struggling. Because he _did_ enjoy it, that Jon wanted to fight – he enjoyed the way Jon got more and more desperate, enjoyed the way he got angry and spat and kicked and kissed, enjoyed the part where he _won_, and Jon went limp and compliant and let Martin do whatever he wanted to him. 

Jon’s fingernails dug into his shoulder, and he tried to knee Martin’s thigh aside, but Martin smacked his thigh and made him yelp. It was a good noise. Animalistic, primal, a bestial noise, and he whimpered when Martin grabbed his hands and pushed them above his head.

“Tell me what you want, Jon,” Martin said, and Jon’s eyes flashed before he ripped one of his hands free. He tried to grab at Martin’s face, his neck, tried to dig his nails in again, but Martin slammed his hands down this time.

“I’m in charge,” Martin reminded him.

Jon _spat_ at him, and Martin was so angry for a second that his whole mind went white.

When he came to, Jon was breathing shallowly, his head back against the mattress, his lips parted, his eyes wide. His tongue ran along his upper lip, and he said, weakly, “Do that again?”

“What did I do?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember you _spat_ at me, which we haven’t discussed, by the way,” Martin said. “Then, I remember being angry.”

“You… you pulled. Just a bit. The pressure—”

“Oh,” Martin said, relieved, his head awash with visions of slapping Jon across the face, or threatening to kill him, or dropping him in the Lonely and letting him drown there. The guilt was there. Distant, but there.

He put more pressure on Jon’s wrists, pushing them further above his head, and Jon hissed softly, his head tipping back, his eyes half-closing.

“You ready?” Martin asked, and Jon inhaled, but he nodded, nodded… Martin took both of his wrists with one hand – and the fact that he could do that? That was sexy in itself, that he was so much bigger than Jon, that he could _do_ that – and went to put the other hand in Jon’s hair, but Jon grabbed for it, breathed in hard and buried his eyes against Martin’s arm. “Okay,” Martin said, shifting his thigh between Jon’s legs, and Jon thrust desperately up against it, gasping into his mouth.

It didn’t take long, not really. This was a shorter night than most, and Jon came pretty fast. The pressure on the shoulders was new, but good, apparently, and he got up as soon as they were done to grab Jon some pyjama bottoms and clean him off with wet wipes.

Jon laughed at him, and then kissed him.

“Bet you’d love it if I put you on one of those medieval torture racks,” Martin said as he stripped down his boxers and his t-shirt. The silence went on just a little too long, and Martin started laughing. _“Seriously?”_

“I didn’t say _yes_,” Jon hissed, embarrassed, and Martin fell on top of him, pressing kisses onto his cheeks, his nose, his chin.

“You’d love it,” Martin said. “Stretch you out until you felt the bones pop? What next, flay your skin off? Pull out a few teeth?”

“_Stop it!”_ Jon said, squirming, and Martin laughed even harder, falling onto his back. “I _just_ came.”

“You’re such a _masochist!”_

“_You’re_ a masochist!”

“How do you figure that, Jon?”

“You’re with me, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” Martin said, the laugh fading off his mouth, and he curled his palm around Jon’s cheek. “Jon.”

“I wasn't, once upon a time,” Jon said softly, looking at Martin very seriously, his lips pressed loosely together. “A masochist, I mean. I did try stuff, in uni. I didn’t like to be… I know I didn’t like bondage. I didn’t like to be spanked. Certainly didn’t get turned on at the idea of someone biting me until blood ran down my chest.”

“Things have changed since then. You’re not the same person you used to be,” Martin said, his tone gentle, his fingers sliding into Jon’s hair.

“Martin,” Jon said, “we’re not the same _species_ we used to be.”

“Species-_ies_,” Martin corrected. “We’re not the same breed of monster.”

Jon sniggered.

“Is it the same for you?” he asked.

“Not with masochism,” Martin said. “I did… I liked domming, I think. I was a bit of a sadist. But not like I am now. Case in point, I’m actually _considering_ some of the stuff we just joked about.”

“And you think about dropping me in the Lonely, sometimes,” Jon said, and his eyes went a bit unfocused as he stared into the middle distance. “Sometimes, you think of how overwhelmed I got, how much I cried, when you put your mouth on my— You think about it, sometimes. You don’t _fantasize_ about it, exactly, but you think about how it would feel, to choke me on it, to feel me cry, and afterward, how you could comfort me as though it wasn’t you that—”

“Shut up,” Martin said, voice low, and more commanding than he ever dreamed he could make it, three years ago.

Jon’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Martin said softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

“It’s… It’s not that I don’t know that you wouldn’t,” Jon said, leaning in and curling his body against Martin’s side, one of his legs tangling loosely around Martin’s, his palm sliding over Martin’s cock through his boxers, the heel of his hand dragging down the shaft of it, and Martin exhaled a noise. “It’s just— I don’t know that I would mind as much as you think that I would.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t mind if I _raped_ you?” Martin demanded, sitting up, but Jon pushed him down again.

“I didn’t use the word rape,” Jon said.

“You know, I don’t think I like semantic arguments with you,” Martin muttered, and Jon’s mouth pressed over his shoulder.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you?” Jon asked lowly, and the hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood on end as his voice lowered on the register, a little more resonance coming into it. It wasn’t compulsion, but there was a hypnotic note to it that seeped into Martin’s body as though Jon had injected him with warm honey. “Martin? Wouldn’t you like to really put me in my place? You know I like to give up control, but I don’t give enough, do I? I don’t give you as much as you want. When I get mouthy with you, when I get uppity. You could throw me in the Lonely, I suppose, but you know you’d want to pull me out again, afterward. Whereas shoving your cock down my throat—”

“_Jon!”_

“The mouth says no,” Jon said, slightly smugly, too much the Archivist to not make Martin squirm. “The _eye_—”

“Do _not_ call it an eye.”

“It’s popularly called an eye, and _urethra_ isn’t a very sexy wo—”

“It’s not my urethra that’s hard!”

In retort, Jon squeezed, and Martin moaned, his head pressing back into the pillow, one hand tightening in the sheets and the other in Jon’s hair.

“You’d love it,” Jon went on, and he stroked Martin through the soft fabric of his boxers, squeezing him at the base, twisting his wrist just a little bit before his thumb slid over Martin’s head. The fabric was wet there, and Martin whimpered as Jon leaned in closer, his breath hot in Martin’s ear as he whispered, “Imagine how tight my throat would be. How wet, and tight, how you’d be able to feel me gasping, feel my hands grasping at you for purchase, begging you silently to stop, my eyes pouring with tears. I’d be shaking, afterward, wouldn’t be able to stop sobbing – and then, you could comfort me, couldn’t you? Leave me with your come dripping down my chin and stroke my hair, tell me so sweetly that you wish you hadn’t _had_ to do it, but now you hope that I’ll be just a _bit_ more obedient?”

Martin heaved in a gasp, his cock so hard he could barely stand it. Jon’s hand was tight around him, wonderful shocks of pleasure through him, and Jon’s voice was so good, what he was saying was so _awful_—

“I _wouldn’t!”_

“You would,” Jon said, somehow Archivist and sing-song all at once. “If I deserved it.”

Martin came, dragging so hard at Jon’s hair that Jon actually groaned, and this time it was Jon that crawled out of bed, grabbing a towel and a pair of pyjama bottoms for Martin to change into.

Martin lay on top of Jon, later on, let Jon pull him into place even as he looked up at Martin’s face, his fingers playing back and forth over the back of Martin’s neck. Jon looked up at him, and then said, “I know that you wouldn’t. I’m not frightened of you.”

“You should be,” Martin mumbled, guilt eating at him from the gut outward, and Jon shook his head.

“You should be frightened of _me_,” Jon replied. “We are frightening. We’re the monsters under people’s beds.”

“I wouldn’t fit under anybody’s bed.”

“In their wardrobes, then.”

“You’re not worried I’ll become like Peter Lukas?”

“I don’t know. Are you worried I’ll become like Elias?”

They were both silent, then, looking at one another, and then Jon closed his eyes. Martin rolled them over, and Jon pressed his face against Martin’s chest even as Martin grabbed blindly for the weighted blanket slung over the back of the headboard, tugging it down to pass it over.

Jon smiled.

“Every other person I’ve ever been with found it… irritating,” Jon said lowly. “About the… pressure.”

“I literally suggested I put you on a stretching rack today,” Martin said, and Jon laughed.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know. It’s just— We’re somewhat left of normal.”

“Do you… Is that, is that what you think? _Somewhat left_?”

Jon smiled, his head tipping forward as the blanket was thrown over his shoulders, and Martin relaxed as he felt Jon’s breath at the crook of his neck, Martin’s fingers tracing lines up and down his spine.

“I wouldn’t do it,” Martin said. “You couldn’t deserve that.”

“It’s quite possible I will ask for it,” Jon said, somewhat guardedly. “At some point.”

“I’ll say no,” Martin said. “I’ve said no before.”

“Alright,” Jon said. He didn’t sound disappointed. He didn’t sound angry, either, or even surprised, just…

He fell asleep, after a while. Martin lay in his place, and turned the night over again and again in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to hit up [my ask on Tumblr.](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask) Requests open.
> 
> I have a Magnus Archives discord! [Join here!](https://discord.gg/c9aZWDz)


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